


by their own weight

by temporalDecay



Series: gravity and other universal laws [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Politics, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 04:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10586046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: Theon falling, gracefullyversion of The Kidnapping. Set about fifteen years, give or take a few, from the Inquisition timeline. Slight tangential spoilers for the main fic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There was a lot of talk about The Kidnapping in twitter, and I just couldn't help myself.

  


* * *

  


_by their own weight_

  


* * *

  


Irrationally, Bull's first thought is the fervent, near mad wish that Rilienus would be there to help sort out the mess. Rilienus is in Ferelden, being miserably happy like only he can be, but if he were here, Bull thinks desperately, he would know what to do. No, that's not it. Bull knows what needs doing, after all. But Rilienus... Rilienus would actually _do_ what needs doing, no questions asked, with that same brutal efficiency that always made people very happy he chose not to be a fighter, unless pushed into a corner. 

“They took my father,” Felix repeats, that same toneless, mute voice that makes Bull sway in place. 

Felix, who Bull always thinks of laughing and running and being a terrible menace he adores to pieces. Felix, who looks at him with Halward's cold, hard eyes, and Bull knows without a shadow of doubt that he's learned his first lesson in hatred, today. Had to happen at some point, this is Tevinter, after all. But Bull still feels it's too soon, too raw. 

“Yes,” Bull says, summoning his voice from the corners of his lungs. “They have.” 

“They _took_ my father,” Felix repeats, all of fifteen years old and simmering with rage that would give grown men pause. Bull knows, logically, that he'll echo it with his own, as soon as the moment passes and the numbness gives in to the roaring in his veins. But for now, for this instant while he gathers his composure, Bull stares. And then Felix falters, shakes, falls apart one delicate piece at the time. “You'll make them pay, won't you? You'll bring him back?” 

“Yes,” Bull says, and the sight of his child, wide-eyed and scared beneath the crust of shock and rage, causes his blood to freeze over in his veins. Rilienus, he thinks, is no longer needed. “I will.” 

  


* * *

  


Years and years ago, before the Inquisition, when he was a different man and answered to a different name in his soul, the Iron Bull would have made do with his Chargers and figured things out as he went. He would not have taken a horse and rode three hours out of Minrathous into a tall, forbidding manor and pounded at the door hard enough to make the hinges shake. He would not have demanded audience with one of the most powerful men in the Imperium, nor he would have been granted it. 

Years and years ago, Hissrad would not have known to stand before Urian Nihalias well after dusk, but the Iron Bull does, refusing to bow as the Black Divine makes a show of sliding a robe over his shoulders. 

“I've come to collect a favor,” Bull says, without preamble, because it's very likely he's going to get killed and the Divine is not known for his patience. 

“You'll forgive an old man his forgetfulness, of course,” Nihalias says, eyebrows arched as he sits on an armchair with the same ease as if it were a throne. “I don't rightly recall what service you've provided to me, Tal-Vashoth.” 

“Not for me,” Bull replies, keeping his voice as even as he can make it. “For Magister Pavus. I know he's never collected on Vyrantium. Well, here I am, collecting on his behalf.” 

Nihalias' eyes darken considerably at the crude invocation of the past. Bull feels a pang of regret over it. He likes Adrian, after all. After the boy grew up, Bull only grew fonder of him. It seems wrong, somehow, to reduce his life to a pawn in a game of chess, to be traded for a favor. That's precisely why Dorian never collected on that, not even when the Lucerni were struggling or the Magisterium attempted to wrestle Vyrantium from his hands. Dorian always fought his own battles, teeth and claw, and refused to let any of them be bought on the life of a young boy, whose only crime had been to be born of the wrong family. 

But Dorian, Bull reminds himself, is not here tonight. 

“And where is Magister Pavus exactly?” Nihalias asks, voice silky smooth and venomous, “or do you reckon spreading your legs for him somehow entitles you to anything?” 

“Magister Pavus has been taken by the Venatori,” Bull replies, ignoring the barb with the ease of practice. After all, it is hardly a secret in Minrathous by now. On his better days, he likes to think of the snide whispers as a pure expression of jealousy, considering the political powerhouse Dorian had turned out to be. “You can understand why he cannot be here to ask for repayment himself. But I will not see him harmed over the death of a darkspawn monstrosity over a decade ago.” Bull swallows hard. “I'm prepared to make reparations for my rudeness, your Holiness, but only after this is settled.” 

Nihalias sits back, pondering the information carefully. Bull shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other, biting on his tongue and refusing to give in to the impulse to push. Nihalias has not lived as long as he has, wielding the power he does, by being reckless. But still, the minutes that stretch into silence are quite possibly the longest of Bull's admittedly convoluted life. 

“I'll need something of his, his blood, ideally,” Nihalias says eventually, making Bull choke on a sigh of surprise. “I will make you a phylactery,” which are forbidden in the Imperium, precisely _because of_ the Vyrantium incident during the war with Corypheus. Bull can't quite wipe the shock off his face. “You will use it to find him, alive or dead, and once that is settled, you will bring it back and allow me to witness its destruction.” 

Bull bows, precisely, the right angle and depth, even though he's not Andrastean and cares not one whit for the supposed holiness Nihalias is entitled to. 

“Yes, your Holiness,” he says, voice as solemn as he's ever been, “thank you, your Holiness.” 

Nihalias waits until he's turned to leave to speak again. 

“Oh, and, the Iron Bull?” He says, placid and calm, like the sea before a storm. “If you ever dare put your Qunari filth in my presence without a summons again, I will kill you were you stand.” 

  


* * *

  


It takes an hour for the phylactery to be ready. Then another four hours for the men and women Bull summoned to gather at the Pavus estate. By the time they set out, Bull is leading a force of nearly fifty: his Chargers, of course, but also every former student from Vyrantium currently residing in or near Minrathous he could find, and every Valo-Kas sworn Tal-Vashoth willing to carry a blade in a fifty mile radius of the capital. It's a quiet and shockingly short ride to the country house that the phylactery has guided them to. The sun is barely rising on the horizon, drenching the sky in red and orange, when Bull gives the order to attack. 

The Venatori were clearly expecting Bull and the Chargers, as the official security force of the Pavus estate for more than a decade now. 

They were not expecting nearly twenty angry, frothing battle mages who learned the best of their trade under the Inquisition banners. Neither were they expecting two dozen vicious, ruthless Valo-Kas mercenaries, who feel entitled to prove their loyalty and gratitude for the man who saved them from themselves. 

The battle is over nearly as soon as it begins: the estate grounds frozen and scorched in turns, and Skinner carefully studying the pile of corpses before giving permission to burn them. Dalish stations herself at the front door, like a sentry, while Grim and Stitches make the rounds to check on the wounded. 

“No casualties so far,” Krem says as he follows Bull, because it'll be a cold day in hell now, the day Krem stops watching his back, and Bull would hug him, really, he would, but not until he's sure there _really_ haven't been any casualties. 

They find Dorian in the cellar, his right arm broken in three places and his left eye swollen shut and purple. He's bound in chains and his clothes are caked in mud and blood. 

But he's smiling, when he spies Bull's silhouette against the doorway. 

“Aww,” he says, flippant and vibrant and alive, and Bull feels the void in his gut finally cave in as he crosses the distance in three strides and wraps his arms around him, fierce. “Don't tell me I've missed the slaughter! Here I was hoping to put the fear of me in someone today.” 

Bull doesn't cry, then. He wants to, but there are things that need doing: getting Dorian out and torching the place to the ground, for starters – which Dorian does, despite his injuries, after a stolen sip of lyrium and a terrifying reminder to all present that he's grown older, not weaker. He lets Bull pull him up to ride with him, and if he's in pain – which he must be, he absolutely must be, and Bull wants to bring back the bastards who did this, just purely for the pleasure of killing them all over again – he doesn't show it. 

  


* * *

  


Bull does cry, when it's all over. After the phylactery has been destroyed and the Divine has repeated his sincere desire to never see Bull again. After opening the cellars and allowing wine and mead to flow freely, and then leaving the Vyrantium mages and the Valo-Kas recruits to riot their triumph in the main hall. After Felix has hugged his father and been reassured sufficiently that he will make a full recovery, and then shooed off to bed with a kiss on his forehead and a promise it will all be alright. 

Bull lies in bed, curled up against Dorian's good side, and cries as fingers trace small patterns along the back of his skull. 

“I was not afraid, Amatus,” Dorian whispers, the ghost of tears caught in the back of his throat, but Bull knows him well enough to know he won't shed them. He cries for the both of them, he knows, because Dorian's pride wouldn't allow otherwise. “I wasn't, truly. I knew you'd find me.” 

“I should have never let them take you in the first place,” Bull whispers desperately, voicing his own failure as if expecting judgment. 

“Bull, Amatus,” Dorian tugs on a horn as he speaks, nudging Bull to meet his eyes, “you can't always protect me. I appreciate the sentiment, I do. But you can't protect me, not if I stay committed to changing Tevinter for good. Just like I can't protect you from the world, if you stay committed to your work for Shokrakar. We made our choices and we knew the risks involved, when we made them. The only thing we can do, is what you did. Look out for each other and have faith we'll always find one another. We can't escape the danger, but we can face it, together.” 

“If I had been late, Kadan,” Bull begins, but Dorian silences him, pressing his fingers to his lips. 

He smiles, when Bull kisses them instead. 

“You weren't late,” Dorian says, and leans in to kiss him, even though it jostles his arm and makes him wince slightly. “You were magnificent.” 

“I pissed off the Divine,” Bull admits, rueful, and he realizes only after the words are out of his mouth, that he's expecting... Dorian to be angry. 

But Dorian is delighted, instead, choking on a laugh and staring down at him with loving, bright eyes. 

“Oh, Amatus, what have you done?” 

Bull buries his face into Dorian's side and tells him. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian makes absolutely no effort to hide his injuries as he takes the floor the very next morning. Bull and Felix and Mae and damn near everyone who knows and cares for him is absolutely aghast at the idea, but Dorian walks into the Senate with a flourish of skirts in brand new summer robes and cheerfully details a new law proposal as scheduled, without once mentioning his injuries or the Venatori. The new law would abolish slavery in the Imperium, in practice, but not in theory. It's certainly his boldest political move yet, but as the Magisterium dissolves into yelling and arguing, Dorian can't help but notice a certain air of reluctance in the opposition, something almost like wary respect. 

The Kadan necklace hangs reassuringly from his staff, beneath the focus crystal between the twin snake heads at the top. Dorian has worn it there since he got it, as a reminder and a promise, of where his true strength lies. He sits back to watch the heated debate, staff resting on his lap, and he fingers the obsidian-encrusted dragon tooth like a charm for good luck. 

Despite it all, he finds himself severely lacking in regrets. 

  


* * *

  


“Only you would turn a kidnapping into a political success,” Bull says accusingly, later, as he hand feeds Dorian his dinner after he whined that eating with his left hand was too arduous a chore. 

“I've set quite the standard for myself this time, haven't I?” Dorian replies, eyes dancing with mischief. “Imagine the lengths I'll have to go, to outdo myself.” 

Bull stares down at him, like he's a mystical, lost Elven relic that he doesn't quite know what to do with or that might explode into fade-demon-bullshit at any moment. Then he sighs and laughs and kisses Dorian, almost all at once. 

“You're so _gross_ ,” Felix mutters plaintively, from the other side of the table, with the perennial disdain of any teenager forcefully reminded that his parents do not, in fact, enjoy celibacy. “I can't believe I was _actually_ worried.” 

“I see how it is,” Dorian says, laughing as Bull actually blushes slightly at the admonishment. He's never really known how to take Felix's teasing, properly. Dorian finds it helplessly adorable. “I suppose you were already rejoicing in your inheritance, weren't you? Prepared to oust the old man from his seat before my poor corpse had finished cooling.” 

“Because if you actually were stupid enough to get killed, I _wouldn't_ totally run to Ferelden to hide with uncle Rilienus,” Felix says, with a mighty deadpan. “Totally.” 

Bull chokes on a snort and shrugs when Dorian offers him a glare. 

“Your heir,” he says, snickering when Dorian huffs. “Your blood.” 

“Yes,” Dorian says, with a small, wry twist to his mouth, as he surveys his little kingdom, bought with blood, sweat and tears and nearly two decades of being, unrepentantly, himself. “I can see that.” 

_What do you know, Father,_ he thinks, watching Felix make dramatic faces to go with Bull's dramatic attempts to feed him, _House Pavus might just endure, after all._


End file.
